Holden, 10 Years After: How Holden Applied Himself and Moved On
by supermahler2012
Summary: This is my close replication of Holden Caulfield's voice, and my opinion of what happened to him ten years after the events of Catcher in the Rye. It is an optimistic view, I think... This is also my first Fan Fic. Please review it.


If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is how I got my lousy act together in these ten damn years, and how I've sorta figured a few things in that time. I realized that the world is full of phonies, and I can't do anything about it. I once told my little sister Phoebe that I like some things in this lousy planet, and that I'd like to be a catcher in the rye, and all that. I look back, and that kills me. It really does. I was stupid then, and I think I still am, if you want to know the truth. I wanted to be a damn _catcher_. In the g**damn _rye_. That's stuff from an old poem, it really is.

I hated the phonies I met at those damn schools like Pencey Prep. I swear to God I hated that place. I still do, if you want to know the truth. It's funny though, I still miss old Stradlater, and even that old Ackley kid. I wonder how they're doing, it's been a damn long time. They killed me, and Stradlater _really_ damn near _killed_ me. That's not a hell of a big deal anymore. I lived.

I still kinda hate Stradlater for probably giving Jane Gallagher the time in that damn Ed Banky's car. Looking back, though, I think I'm better off now than I was then, on account that I'm not the damn coward I was at the time any more. A few days after I took Phoebe to the carousel in Central Park, I figured I'd give old Jane Gallagher a buzz, and I felt good. I really did. I asked her how she was and all that stuff, and we went out for a date a few days later. I was so glad that she didn't change a bit, and I had a great time with her, I really did. We still give each other a buzz on the phone sometimes. She's busy nowadays, though, studying for a degree in literature. She's a brilliant writer, and she still loves reading and writing poetry.

Jane's studying something she loves to death, while I'm still trying to figure myself out. My old English teacher from Elkton Hills Mr. Antolini told me, before making what I thought was a flitty pass in stroking my hair while I was asleep that one night ten years ago, that I should measure my mind and apply myself and all that crap. I remembered his words, though, and I did begin to apply myself. I swear I did. I went to this public community college, and I studied arithmetic, English, history, all that. The funny thing is that I didn't see a lot of phonies, and I think I have a few reasons for that, come to think of it. First off, it wasn't a damn Ivy League school, so it wasn't full of stuck-up, phony, super intelligent snobs. Second, many of the people there were coming out of high school, or were high school drop-outs, and I was kicked out of Pencey Prep, so I thought not too many people there would've been much smarter than me. Smart people are real phonies, they just shoot the bull for a while when greeting others and talking with them. They really do. Third, I found that some people there were like me. I was so damn glad to find people that could relate to me and understand me, and how I was upset about the death of my brother Allie more than a decade back. Some people there were trying to find themselves, just like I was then, and we told each other our thoughts and all that. That helped a lot. It really did.

So I applied myself. I applied myself, and now I'm just a welder. It's not much, and I hate it. But I remember my time after I left Pencey, and I sure as hell don't want to be homeless and wandering around the streets of the city like I did in those few lousy days before I was supposed to come back home. I made sense of myself in that way, wanting to have some purpose. I get paid now, and I'm living in my own little apartment where I'm not allowing any visiting family or friends to do anything phony. I'm not out on the streets, I'm not walking through Central Park in the dark, wondering where the ducks go in the winter. And I'm not riding in the damn cabs with those crazy cab drivers that are lousy to strike up a conversation with. I wouldn't ride with them if my life depended on it. I need to save my money anyway, for other things.

In my time at the community college, I lived at home. I didn't have to board with damn phonies for once. It was a nice change, I swear it was. I didn't have to worry about money, or about whose suitcases were better than other peoples' suitcases, and I got to live at home with Phoebe and Mom and Dad. They didn't have to worry about me much, and I felt somewhat at ease. Phoebe was very affectionate towards me in that time, and still is, and I felt that Mom was proud of me. I bet Allie would be proud of me, too. He would've wanted me to succeed. I knew he would.

After two years at community college, I tried to get a job at a day care center near Phoebe's old school. I still wanted to be like a catcher in the rye at the time, and I still liked kids. I still do. I wanted to care for them and I wanted them to not have to worry about things. When I applied, however, I had to answer some damn questions about my mental health background. I knew I was a goner. My time with the psychoanalyst a decade ago was something I had to talk about, and about my suicidal feelings in that time and all that. Based on that, the folks at the center did not give me the job. So now I'm a welder. I need to worry about my safety, about the safety of others, about making progress. It's not a fun job. I hate it, actually. I feel like burning myself with my welding tools sometimes. I know Phoebe and Mom and Dad wouldn't be happy if they heard that I killed myself on the job and all, and that would only make Mom worse, even though Allie's been dead for a while now, so I don't do it. I still don't like being a welder, though. I swear I never will.

But I'm fine. I really am. I'm not a complete coward or loser like I thought I was, and I'm surviving. I'm actually surprised my life turned the way it turned out to be after Allie died. My life became a mess after he died and when I punched those windows in the garage with my bare fists. It really did.

Come to think of it, I'm surprised that life is turning around. It always has since I saw that damn psychoanalyst. He told me to think of Allie and D.B., Phoebe and my parents, and I did. So here I am. A welder with some education. Better than nothing, but I'm not really happy. I feel like a phony. I want to do something else with life, but I can't on account of those bastards at the day care center I told you about earlier. I have to do something else and pretend that I like doing it. But I'm alive, and I realize that I can't fix all the damn phonies and phoniness in the world. I would have to fix myself first, and I'm already messed up. Not like before, though, but I'm still messed up. I still think myself a madman at times, but not like before. At least Allie would be proud of me. Phoebe and Mom and Dad, and Mr. Antolini should be proud of me for even attempting to apply myself, even though I have a lousy welding job after two years of community college.

I'm not going to be anything great, and I'm still sure as hell not going to be a damn surgeon or violinist. I'm not smart or talented enough, and my hand's busted up from punching those windows more than ten years ago. At least I applied myself. At least I've got a job. I'll live. But at the same time, I want to be who I was ten years ago. I could at least point out the phonies and think of being a catcher in the rye, of living in a cabin in Vermont or in Colorado, away from phonies. I was freer, and didn't worry about a lot about what I have to worry about now. Damn phonies. I'll live, though.


End file.
